


Pale on Pale (English Version)

by ashtobone



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Adaptation, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Bottom Louis, Correspondence, Diary/Journal, Disturbing Themes, Dracula Influence/References, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Letters, M/M, POV First Person, POV Harry Styles, POV Louis Tomlinson, POV Zayn Malik, Reincarnation, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Suicide, Vampire Harry Styles, pov luke malak
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26345539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashtobone/pseuds/ashtobone
Summary: “When the light in your eyes goes out for the last time, when your hands are tied: Pale on pale. Mind on mind.”Harold lost the woman he loved while fighting for his God. Denying his belief and cursed by the Church, he made darkness his home for more than 500 years.Louis is a young professor who is enjoying a recent engagement with charming Luke - a real estate agent sent to Romania to accompany a mysterious and noble client moving to London.Or:Where the love between Louis and Harry is so strong that it can cross oceans of time and overcome the barriers of death. Louis does not understand why he feels tied to that mysterious man but wants to be with Harry - even if he is plunged into darkness.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Harry Styles/Original Female Character(s), Luke Malak/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Pale On Pale" is a longfic, heavily inspired by the original text of “Dracula”, by Bram Stoker. It is also inspired by a lot of the content that came many years later, on the film adaptation of the same book, by Francis Ford Coppola, and some of the darkest and most beautifully written songs by Chelsea Wolfe. 
> 
> As this fic inspires in one the the biggest classics of horror literature, there's a few topics I'd like to make clear before we begin:
> 
> • Smuts are wild (because one of the characters is an animalistic beast aka a vampire). The most "aggressive" smuts do not characterize any type of abuse, since: all sex scenes are consensual ALL THE TIME.
> 
> • Some characters will die along the course of the story. It is what it is.
> 
> • Pale on Pale contains graphic descriptions of violence and some criticisms of religion / mention of alternative cults. If these are sensitive topics, don't read.
> 
> • The chapters are not restricted to Harry or Louis' POV. Other characters will also have their views of events exposed and their own experiences within the universe. In the beginning, there are many sections in Luke’s and Zayn’s POVs.
> 
> • Some chapters are narrated as ongoing events, while others are narrated in the form of correspondence between characters, or journal entries. Dates (and the passage of time itself) are relevant to the story.
> 
> This work was originally published in 2018, on Wattpad. For many reasons, I was absent and took my stories with me. I don't intend to publish them again on Wattpad, but it seems unfair to leave them in the dark and away from the people who read, liked and supported me when I published it.
> 
> This and all my stories originally posted on Wattpad will be transferred here to the Archive and I hope they can still please some hearts as they once did.

_ Nothing will keep us apart. _

_ I said: Nothing will keep us apart. _

_ I know that you'll find me there. After the fall. _

_ I know that you're waiting, _

_ Ready to run. _

_ ❧ _

**Luke Malak's Diary**

_ May 3rd, Bistrita. _

I left Munich at 8:35 in the evening of the 1st. I passed through Vienna and thanks to a stupid train delay I arrived a little too late in Budapest. One delay led to another and I ended up not being able to explore the city as much as I would like, preferring not to stray too far from the station where I would take a new train.

Being so far east of Europe is a little strange to me, I had never left Doncaster or London, but it would be amazing if Louis could be with me. Curious as he is, he would love the landscapes - which are the background of this trip - the picturesque climate that makes even the city centers look like small towns and, mainly, the peculiar habits of the places I had the opportunity to observe for more than a few minutes since I entered the eastern tip of the continent.

The truth is that this trip cuts like a double-edged sword. It came as a beautiful opportunity to leverage my career, but I couldn't have chosen a more annoying moment. Louis and I have been together for five years, but only two months ago we made an engagement official. I wish I could bring him, or postpone appointments like that until after we were married, but when Simon came back to London with a sick leave, I was the only person available to make the trip and close the contracts that are the center of attention of the small real estate firm where I work. I thought about refusing, I even talked to Louis about it, but he vehemently prevented me from putting my career aside.

I intend to suggest that we move the wedding forward as soon as I return to London. Obviously, he has no idea of that, but with each passing day I feel that I need to be with him even more - definitely. I hope he doesn't read this diary before we actually talk about it. It would be strange.

The whole experience of writing in a diary seems strange to me. It is a habit for Louis, who has kept diaries since before we met, but I myself had never written in one. Sometimes I even imagine that he records all the events of the day, in minute details, so much time that he spends doodling on his little pet notebooks. Perhaps this is one of the things that most enchants me about him. His attachment to details. That is certainly why he asked me to keep a travel diary. Louis is one of those people: curious, detailed and completely unable to mask his excitement when he is interested in something - whatever it is.

❧

_ May 3rd, Bistrita - later. _

I fell asleep for a few hours on the train and when I woke up, I started reading some small books on local history that I bought in various tourist spots.

Apparently, the land I visit has a very eventful past. The lands belonged to ancient Empires and were the scene of many wars between peoples who fought for something far beyond the domain of territory. The worst wars are those driven by the faith of a blind man, and these were the wars that bathed the ground in present-day Romania with blood.

When I was reading a small section of curiosities about the place where I am going, I discovered that the man for whom I will render my services has among his ancestors a Prince who had been a general in one of these so-called "holy wars".

Very little I know about the man. Only that he is an old man, a nobleman of a traditional family - of great prestige among the locals - who lives in an isolated castle and decided to invest in three properties: two in London and a third in a district a little further away. I still don't understand what it would take a man like him to acquire such properties. From the descriptions I received, the man seems to be at the end of his life, never had children or was married and there are also no close relatives.

It is difficult to understand how another generation's mind works. People with a different lifestyle, raised in another culture and with values completely different from mine. During the time that I will remain in the castle, however, I intend to try.

_ Ah! _ I almost forget to register: I discovered, perhaps a little by sheer intuition, that the people of the region are fiercely religious -  _ and superstitious! _ I don't know if there is a connection between this excessive and somewhat fanciful belief and the region's past, but perhaps it is something worth investigating. I suppose I will have plenty of free time in the next few days and, who knows, maybe I can dedicate myself to some futile knowledge.

I can hardly wait to get to the castle and be able to rest. I have not slept well, because the nights are confused and punctuated by strange dreams. At the last inn, a dog howled all night under my window and this, perhaps, had something to do with dreams. I fell asleep when the day was breaking. This is the last night I intend to spend here. At the recommendation of my client (in a memo sent to the firm), I ended up checking into the Hotel Golden Krone - an old-style building down to the smallest detail. I confess that I was very satisfied, because, naturally, I want to know as much as possible of the customs of the region.

It was clear that they were waiting for me, since when I approached the door, a very cheerful lady welcomed me. When I approached, she leaned over and said:

“Luke? The English lawyer?”

"Yes," I said, "Luke Malak.”

She smiled and motioned to an older man, who had accompanied her to the door. He left, but soon returned with a letter:

_ "My friend, _

_ Welcome to the Carpathians. I look forward to meeting you. Sleep well tonight. At three o'clock tomorrow, a train leaves for Bucovina; I took the liberty of reserving a place for you. In the Borgo pass my carriage will be waiting to bring you to me. The climb is steep and cars do not have access to the castle entrance. Please forgive me. I hope your trip from London has been a pleasant one, and that you will enjoy your stay in my beautiful land. _

_ Your friend, H. " _

After settling properly in my room - a good room, by the way - I tried to call Louis, but I was unsuccessful. I don't know if it is the interference of the high peaks that surround the entire region, but signal on the phones has been a rare event. Anyway, I'm happy to at least be able to return taking good pictures with me.

* * *

**Louis Tomlinson’s Diary**

_ May 2nd, London. _

I haven't spoken to Luke in a few days. I received an email yesterday morning, but I miss our conversations. I didn't like watching him go on a long trip, but I don't think I could - or should - interfere with his career and try to stop him from going. I know his boss and I know that, for someone like Luke, an opportunity like this is rare and should be taken advantage of. I'm glad to see him growing up. Since we met, still in high school, Luke has always been a little unsure about himself and his own choices. To this day, I don't understand how he never doubted us.

School days have been peaceful. Maybe in a while, after the wedding and when I have some less worries in my head, I can finally start thinking about my master's degree. In fact, Luke's trip to Eastern Europe rekindled my desire to study the region. I don't know where my fascination comes from, but curiosity about the place burns inside me. It is foolish to say, but it is as if there is a  _ magic  _ that calls my name. I really would have liked to accompany him.

Talking about it reminds me that maybe I should call my mom. We haven't seen each other for more than a month and I'm a little scared by the return of a certain condition that I have had since childhood. Drowning dreams have returned. They were gone for a long time, it is true, but I believe that sleeping alone is affecting me. The last three nights have been the same: I dream that I am drowning and I wake up crying with the terrible sensation of feeling my lungs full of water - even though I am completely dry.

The voice was also there. A husky, male voice while I drown. The voice did not happen when I was little, it is something new. He calls me, I just know he calls me, even though I cannot understand a word. It is not a voice that I know, it is not the voice of anyone with whom I have had any contact - it is unique and hard.  _ Familiar _ . It is like an echo buried too deep. When I wake up and recover from the shock of drowning, it escapes me, walks away while my mind tries to find who it is. I will probably never really know, probably I just have too much imagination.

❧

_ May 3rd, London. _

I feel strange.

Last night I had a dream and I feel like I'm out of my own body until now.

She was absolutely beautiful, but I couldn't see her face in detail. There was something about her that reminded me of my mother. She was white as the moon, white as if her skin exuded an aura of reflected light, her dark hair fell down her back like a waterfall and she was dressed in a charming emerald shade. I didn't see details of where we were, but it was dark, cold, lonely. I saw her there and she just didn't seem to be aware of my presence. I saw her and saw through her, but I never saw myself, sneaking in the dark.

The girl was crying. Crying and clinging to a piece of paper and I didn't understand. Increasingly loud sobs disturbed me, frozen where I was. She read whatever was on the paper again and pressed it against her chest. Alone and lost, I could feel it inside her. At that moment, I felt panic tear my spine. The girl went up to the window. I tried to get out of the place, but it was as if I just watched it - a spectator in a parallel dimension.

She jumped and at the same moment it was as if I was transporting myself to the parapet. I looked down, but I couldn't see anything. It was too high and the rocks on the side of the cliff looked too slippery for me to try to get down and find her. The river below was furious, the current was throwing against the stones with frightening violence. There was no chance for her. She was dead - by stones or water. Dead or dying.

It was then that I woke up. Feeling drowned.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Run from the one who comes to find you, _

_ Wait for the night that comes to hide. _

_ Your eyes, black like an animal. _

_ Crossing the water, _

_ Lead them to die! _

❧

**Luke Malak's Diary**

_ May 4, still in Bistrita. _

I found out that the owner of the hotel where I spent the night had received another letter from my client. The letter instructed him to guarantee, for me, one of the best seats in the private cabins of the train that leaves today for Bucovina. I was curious about it, but when I asked him questions the man went into a kind of outbreak. He refused to answer almost everything, saying he was not authorized to give details and asking God to forgive him. I was a little stunned by that behavior.

Throughout our conversation, his wife, the old lady who welcomed me yesterday, gave him frightened looks - as if warning him that, in fact, he would not go overboard and say something he shouldn't. In the end, he mumbled something about the money from my stay and the reservation on the train being sent by post, stating again that he couldn't give any more details. When I asked them directly if they knew my client or that castle, the couple exchanged a look that screamed in terror, and both made the sign of the cross. Once again, they refused to tell me anything, and since the train was soon to leave, I didn't have time to ask anyone else. Everything seemed mysterious and, in a way, terrifying.

Just before I left, the lady came to my room, hysterical:

“Do you really have to go? Ah, young man, do you really need to go?”

She looked so elated that she lost control of the little English she knew, mixing it with some kind of local language that I didn't know. I was forced to ask several questions in order to understand it. When I told her that, in fact, I should leave immediately because I had business to do, she asked me again:

“Do you know what day it is?”

"May 4th," I said, and she shook her head.

“Oh yes, I know that! I know it. But don't you  _ really  _ know what day it is?”

I looked at her confused, not understanding the real meaning of that question.

“ It's the eve of St. George's Day. Don't you know that today, when the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have absolute power? Do you know where you are going? Do you know what you will find there?”

She looked so distressed that I felt sorry, but in part I was shocked - and I wanted to be able to laugh at the situation. How insane can someone's belief be? How does a rational human being get carried away, how does he get lost in despair, out of pure superstition? Unbelievable.

When I thought the situation couldn't get any stranger, the woman got down on her knees and begged me not to go, or at least to wait another day or two before leaving. It was all ridiculous and I felt very uncomfortable. I tried to get her up and said, as seriously as possible, that I was grateful for her concern, but that it wasn't necessary. There are deals to be dealt with and I couldn't let a completely lunatic woman interfere in that way.

She stood up, wiping her eyes. Took a crucifix from her neck and handed it to me. I did not know what to do. I am not attached to any religion, nor have I been brought up to view such symbols with idolatry. It seemed impolite to refuse something from a lady with such good intentions - and in such a state! She seemed to notice the doubt in my eyes, so she placed her hands over mine, closing my fingers around the delicate chain.

"For your mother," she pleaded. And left the room.

I write this passage while I wait for the train that will take me to Bucovina. Obviously, it’s late.

I confess that I still have the crucifix on my neck. I don't know if it's due to the lady's fear, the various superstitions of the place, or the crucifix itself - I don't know - but my mind is not as calm as usual. In fact, I feel restless and fearful. If this notebook reaches Louis before me, let my goodbye be recorded. The train is approaching.

* * *

**Louis Tomlinson’s Diary**

_ May 4th, London. _

Headaches. They just don't go away.

I dreamed again that I was drowning. It hadn't happened for years, not for so many nights in a row. I spent the last day in bed, feeling extremely disturbed and short of breath. It is as if all the fatigue of a life has fallen on me, without the slightest logical explanation for it.

Maybe I have too many worries in my head - which is compounded by the lack of news from Luke. I sent three e-mails, but I have not received a reply so far.

I need to talk to my mom about this.

❧

_ May 5th, London. _

I talked to Jay and we agreed: I need a vacation.

It is foolish to think that we will never reach exhaustion, but my condition is deplorable - I accept and admit it. Today I go out to do some routine exams and, in the next few days, I will apply for a license request at the school where I teach. I don't earn well enough to take a real vacation, but I can afford to ask for a leave. Just a few weeks and maybe I can visit my mom in Doncaster or see Zayn - who's been back in Bradford for a long time.

I haven't really thought about what I'm going to decide yet, but I'm definitely going to take some time for myself. I need to get rid of that weight, that shadow that has been hanging over me for the past few days. I can't stand the restless feeling of being watched, suffocated, chased.

Missing Luke contributes to making me feel down, but I will be understanding. I know that deep down he is frightened by this trip and everything that it might mean. I won't pressure him, I'll just wait for news.

I can't wait to feel good again.

* * *

**Dr. Liam Payne's Diary**

_ Bradford Rehab Clinic Diary: May 5th. _

Absolutely mad! Cowell is a completely insane man and by far one of the most fascinating patients I have ever treated.

The man has no apparent physiological problem, but his mind is disturbed to levels I have never seen. There is no history of problems like this in his family, there is no evidence of trauma that can be proven.

The man travels on business and, two months later, returns eating insects and shouting about an approaching master.  _ "A life for a life! A life for a life!" _ , I swear to God I can hear him screaming from here, since my office is three wings from his quarters - the "crazy in containment" wing. It could look like any case of schizophrenia - were it not for the obsession with blood, coffins and the devil himself. It is almost as if he were stuck in fanaticism by some invented character. Simon waits for this master and alerts everyone to his arrival, as if the master were Antichrist or the devil himself.

Yesterday in his reverie, he asked me for a cat. He said that he needs lives for the master, and then he told me in detail how he would open the cat - still alive - and "drink his hot entrails". After describing such a horrendous scene to me, Cowell had a fit of laughter and warned me about my fiancé. He said that I should not leave him sleeping alone when the master arrives.

I could laugh at it quietly, but something made a twinge of concern wash over my chest. I could laugh, certainly, if Zayn wasn't a somnambulist.

* * *

**Luke Malak's Diary**

_ May 5th - Towards the Castle. _

When I sat down in the private cabin, a station worker started to help me with my luggage; I saw him talking to the owner of the hotel and it was quite obvious that they were talking about me, since now and then they looked in my direction. Some of the people who were close decided to stop and listen - something almost inevitable, since the two spoke very loudly. They looked at me, most of them with pity. I heard some words being repeated in excess, so, without fanfare, I took my dictionary in search of the meanings:  _ Ordog  _ \- Satan;  _ Pokol  _ \- Hell;  _ Vlkoslak  _ \- werewolf or vampire. Maybe I will ask my client about all these local superstitions. He is an old man from a traditional family - he must know the history of the place like no one else.

When the train left, I noticed that some people at the station were making the sign of the cross and shaking their heads. This did not please me very much - I was leaving for an unknown place, meeting an unknown man, without the slightest idea of what awaited me.

Along the way, I managed to distract myself by admiring the landscape - which almost dissipated my agony completely. The train was moving with frightening speed, the curves between the hills and even outside them, where the tracks almost climbed the rock, seemed very dangerous and I would not be surprised by the news that there were some accidents there.

As the end of the afternoon progressed, the landscape became even more beautiful, highlighted by the dark purple tones where the sky, which had already plunged into an intense black color, met the horizon punctuated by the mountain peaks. The fall of night also brought the cold silhouettes of pine and oak trees, marked by the speed in which the journey continued.

We were approaching the Borgo Pass and I sometimes saw a gray mist over the pine forests. The cloud seemed to close over us, cutting off the brightness of the stars and the moonlight. I started to feel trapped. By this time, the disturbing and gloomy thoughts from earlier were already making their way back into my mind. I got up in my cabin, intending to speak to someone so I could get down there, right where we were. I would walk uphill if necessary.

"No, no," said the train official to whom I placed my order. “You must not walk here, dogs are very fierce. You may still have to deal with a lot of this before you go to bed.”

The man touched my shoulder, guiding me back to the cabin. I don't think there's anything left to do, I can only wait.

The outside lights of the car were on, but there was little help in my pitch. There was now a certain stir among the passengers. Even though I was in a private cabin, I could see how everyone was talking to the train staff, how the general atmosphere was one of excessive haste among everyone.

A little ahead, I could see a kind of gray flash - something like a crack between the hills. The excitement among passengers increased. The car rocked a lot on the tracks, swaying like a boat in the middle of a storm. When the road became flat again, we seemed to be flying over it. The mountains seemed to be pressing on us, closing in on us. We were at Borgo. The general state of agitation lasted some more time, until the end of the gorge was seen, on the right. I took my bags, preparing to get off at the meeting point of the carriage.

Dark clouds rolled in the sky and a warm breeze warned that there would be a storm soon.

I headed for the exit, accompanied by the wagon driver and followed by the curious looks of the other passengers. There was not the slightest sign of any other vehicle, or of any other living soul there. The man looked at me with a smile:

“An hour early!” He smiled again, continuing: “Nobody expects you here, there is no carriage! You can come back to Bucovina with us and try another day.”

As we spoke, we heard the sound of wheels against the gravel, the trotting of horses and in a few seconds, the carriage was before us. The four horses were beautiful, black as coal. The man who led them was quite tall, had dark hair at shoulder height and hid his face between a large black hat and a jacket with a raised collar. His eyes looked very bright and, at a glance, reddish. When he turned to us, he said to the wagoner:

“You’re early tonight, my friend.”

The man stammered as he replied:

“The Englishman was in a hurry.”

“And that is why you tried to take him back? You can't fool me, friend. I know a lot of things... And my horses are fast.”

The wagonman laughed nervously and uttered a brief whisper in German, a verse I recognized from my college classes:

_ "Denn die Todten reiten schnell." _

Because the dead travel fast.


	3. Chapter 3

_ Creatures of habit, carrion flowers, _

_ Growing from repeated crimes. _

_ The afterglow in full bloom. _

_ Hold on to the pain of love taken from you. _

❧

**Luke Malak's Diary**

_ May 5th - Towards the Castle. _

As that verse echoed in my head, the strange coachman smiled at the man who accompanied me. It was too dark to really notice any striking features, but the whiteness of his teeth was such that it reflected the light from the small lantern attached to the carriage. The light also brought out the strange shade of red on his lips.

"Give me the luggage, sir," the bizarre coachman asked with an education that tried to mask the scorn in his voice.

My few bags were delivered and I got on the carriage, from the side. The coachman helped me, holding on to my shoulder with a steel fist. Without saying a word, he put the reins together. The horses turned and we plunged into the darkness of the gorge. When I looked back one last time, I saw the shape of the wagons of the small locomotive that had taken me to Borgo. Beside it, the wagonman followed the carriage with a slight bow of his head and, when he realized that I was watching him, made the sign of the cross once again. As the man was swallowed by the darkness, a strange chill ran down my spine and I was overcome by a rapturous loneliness. I thought about Louis and what might be waiting for me on the other side of those hills - whatever it was, I hoped to return whole to my love.

If there were any other alternative, I would have chosen it instead of going on that night trip. The carriage moved quickly, straight ahead. Sometimes the carriage looked like it was about to topple over when it made a turn - and then we went back to the road in a straight line. Maybe it was the effect of the night making all the landscapes look similar, maybe it was tiredness playing with my thoughts, but I could have sworn we were going in circles. Walking the same road, over and over again. I would like to ask the driver what the meaning of that was, but if he was deliberately delaying us, I doubt that any protest would have any effect. I felt afraid to tighten my throat.

I patted the inside pockets of my coat, reaching for the cell phone. There would be no signal in a wilderness like that, but I was content to just see what time it was, I needed to know how much time had passed since it started. The light from the screen made my eyes burn a little. A smiling Louis on the screen saver made my heart tremble and I tried to focus on the time: 11:56 pm. Few minutes to midnight. Finding out that there was so little was, in a way, a shock. I waited, with a terrible sense of expectation.

A dog began to howl somewhere down the road - a long, anguished cry, like a startled cry. Another dog imitated the howl, and then another, and another, until the sound seemed to echo from all points behind the trees. A whimper carried by the wind. The horses stirred, reared a few times, but the coachman spoke to them in a quiet voice - almost a whisper - that seemed to contain them in the face of that sudden fear. In the distance, coming from the mountains that rose on both sides, a higher, more acute howl stood out among the others, almost extinguishing them. It could not be a dog, but a wolf - perhaps more than one.

The howling of the wolves affected the horses even more and a little to me, about to jump out of the carriage. The driver pulled the reins vigorously and remained in this struggle to control the animals for some time. A few minutes later, my ears had become accustomed to the sound, as well as the horses, which seemed to calm down. The coachman stopped the carriage and got out, going to check the animals. He caressed them and whispered things that I couldn't hear from where I was. When he returned to the seat, he brandished the whip and we started off at a high speed. This time he did not follow the straight road, but took a detour, a smaller dirt road that made a sharp turn to the right of the main one.

Soon we were surrounded by trees; in some places so close that they closed over the road, forming a kind of tunnel. The rocks around us also seemed louder and darker, and even if it offered us some shelter, the sound of the wind being cut by the rocks was even more frightening than any animal howl. The howls were still there, of course. Dog and wolf, side by side - clearer and clearer, closer and closer.

The coachman stopped the carriage a few times. First to calm the horses and then as if making small rounds around where we were. I didn't quite understand why, but it was repeated and each time the man moved a little further away from the carriage. Going further at each stop. Finally, he moved away more than any other time before. I lost sight of him completely.

The horses were agitated on this occasion and I was confused because the howling of wolves and dogs had completely stopped. I went back to get my phone and when I threw the light towards the trees - looking for any sign of the man who had practically abandoned me in the dark - I was overcome by panic.

Around the carriage, the wolves were arranged in a circle. Like statues, in complete silence. Like black statues in the shade, they were a hundred times more terrifying than howling in the distance. I called out to the driver and hit the wooden sides. The wolves closed the circle, approached slowly and began to howl. The fear grew and my eyes were blurred with terror.

I didn't see how the man got there, but when I realized it, I was standing a little ahead on the road, waving my arms as if to remove some kind of invisible obstacle. The man spoke in a calm and imperative tone. The wolves walked away without resistance, like a trained dog that obeys its owner. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to assimilate what was reality and what could just be my imagination. When I opened them again, the coachman was back in his seat, the wolves were no longer there and we were entering the castle courtyard.

* * *

**Diary of Elizabeth L., Duchess of Wallachia.**

_ April 1439 _

I was asked to attend the gala at Prince Harold's Castle. I feel very agitated since my father brought me the summons. I know I was not the only one, as the Prince intends to marry soon - with the Pope's blessing, as the age approaches.

At eighteen I know that I am almost a witch - I cannot indulge in certain luxuries and I should be content with whoever my husband was, but just the excitement of attending an event like this could kill me!

Mom has already ordered a dress. It will be the most beautiful dress in the Shire, I'm sure! Emerald green, as our Prince's eyes. I can't wait to see it, I can't wait!

❧

_ April 1439 _

I will remember this night until the end of my days! Everything happened in a charming way. I feel a little disturbed and I'm afraid to wake up from a dream.

The Prince is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. His eyes are green, but they are more beautiful than any stupid dress! His voice is low and put me in a trance. Perfect in every detail, it appears to have been sculpted by angels - and as gentle as one.

I gave him a dance just before the tables were served. He also danced with other girls, of course, but at the end of the night he asked my father's permission to accompany me on a walk through the winter garden, inside the Castle. The space is not so remarkable - since the castle is practically carved out of hard rock - but what lacks in size, it remains in delicacy. He took my arm and guided me between the pillars covered with beautiful orchids. We sat by the fountain in the light of the first stars and he told me about his family, his flowers, his commitment to the Church and how blessed he felt for each of these things.

His gaze is the purest power, his voice is bathed in glory, and yet his smile carries peace, tranquility... He left me absolutely mesmerized. I never kissed a man, I never even felt the urge to do so. The bonds of flesh between man and woman are sacred and even a kiss can lead to the loss of lust. Yes, I never kissed a man, but I wanted to do it while I was in the Prince's sweet company. God forgive me for thinking of Harold's lips pressed against mine. God forgive me, but I do not regret it.

* * *

**Diary of Harold S., Prince of Wallachia.**

_ December 1439 _

I made love to Elizabeth. It had certainly been a sin - but I would not go back on doing it.

I gave in to the charms of my little Duchess since the first night I saw her. I love her more than all the other things in this world.

I love the delicacy of her hair, I love the thin lips and the softness of her small breasts. I love her kisses and the way she smiles with her eyes. I love her white skin reacting to my touches, I love the blue immensity in which my heart drowns. I loved her from the first dance, and I loved her naked over me, screaming with love.

She gave me her virginity with a pleading groan, and inside her I had the world.

I would die for Elizabeth, who is now part of me. I would ride until the end of time to protect her, to give her a home in my arms. My sweet creature... No one will disturb us in our garden. Nothing hurts us as we roll naked on the grass.

From this day until the end of all my days, nothing will remain between us.

* * *

**Diary of Elizabeth L.S., Princess of Wallachia.**

_ June 1440 _

We are finally married!

The most beautiful ceremony, it is true, but the details of the party matter little to me. There is nothing that can be compared to the brilliance of my Prince's smile, or the warmth of his hands over mine while making the sacred vows of marriage. More than flesh, we are one in soul and what is united with the Lord's blessing cannot be separated by man.

I know he will soon go to war, because I am not a fool. I know that the Turks and Ottomans are advancing on our territory with relentless fury. I know he was summoned to defend the east by the Pope himself. I know he will keep his word as a man faithful to the Church.

When he leaves, my heart will accompany him in the fight and I will pray for his return, from morning to dusk.

I am his, and he is mine. My home and my strength.

* * *

**Letter to the General in Service to the Pope, Harold S., Prince of Wallachia.**

_ From Borgo Cathedral: Death Notice, 1443. _

_ Beloved Prince, _

_ It is with regret that the Clerical Order of Vale do Borgo comes, through this letter, to inform the death of your wife Elizabeth, Princess of Wallachia. She died three days after the registration of this letter. She committed suicide and there is no body, carried by the strong current of the river outside the castle. _

_ She left a suicide note before throwing herself off the tower in her room. Extreme anointing will not be granted, since Paradise does not fit those who take their own lives. We regret and pray for the Father's mercy. _

_ It is asked of the Prince to return home, joining friends and family during this time of mourning. A new General is on his way to take the post. _

_ May our beloved Princess find peace. _

_ Cardinal Joseph W. _


	4. Chapter 4

_ We bear no fruit, no flowers, no life _

_ And we get sick but never die. _

_ Become an echo, _

_ Resounding "let go". _

_ My heart is a tomb, _

_ My heart is an empty room, _

_ Death will no longer silence us. _

❧

**Luke Malak's Diary**

_ May 5th - The Castle _

I probably fell asleep when I closed my eyes, otherwise I would certainly have noticed when we approached a remarkable building like that. In the dark of dawn, under a pale and distant moon, I had the impression of being in the center of a labyrinth. The courtyard seemed quite wide and dark paths led from the center, marked by stone arches - some in somewhat precarious conditions, seemed to lean over their own shadows, threatening to fall.

When the carriage finally stopped, the coachman jumped to the ground and then extended his hand to me, offering help so that I too could get down. He was squeezing me in a strange way, with unusual strength, and I could have sworn that, if I wanted to, I would have broken my fingers like any other man blinks his eyes. He picked up my luggage and placed it on the floor beside me. We were in front of an old - and huge - wooden door. I was standing there when the coachman climbed back into the carriage and brandished his whip. The horses straightened up and he disappeared through one of the dark openings.

I stayed where I was because I didn't know what to do. There was no bell and I doubted that knocking on the door, or even calling someone, would have any effect. My voice was unlikely to make it through those dark doors and walls. I waited for what seemed like an infinite time. What kind of people did I mess with? What kind of place was that? The questions rang in my ears and everything felt like a terrible nightmare. I rubbed my eyes hoping to wake up from all that. Waking up in London, in my apartment, with Louis. Nothing happened. There was nothing to be done but to be patient and wait.

The moment I reached that conclusion, I heard heavy footsteps crawling on the other side of the huge door. I heard the sound of chains rattling, and then a key turned in the lock. Squeaking a lot - possibly due to disuse - the door opened.

There he was. A man no more than thirty years old - no, certainly younger than that. Wearing a slightly aged black suit that contrasted with absurdly white skin, he held a reddish light lamp at the height of his face, casting dancing shadows across the lobby. His eyes were an intense green, but almost dull, as if a thin milky layer covered them, his lips seemed the only part of his face that conveyed any vitality, colored in an absurd tone. The man made a courteous gesture with his hand, indicating the passage to me, and said, in English almost too good for a foreigner:

\- Welcome to my home! Enter, of your own free will.

He made no move to approach, just moved to the side and stood there, motionless as a statue, like an ivory man. For a moment I wondered if there was a drop of blood running through his body. The instant I walked through the door, he seemed to wake up from a shock. He moved towards me, shaking my hand. Once again I was shocked by the strength - very similar to the coachman - but this time, what impressed me most was the temperature. Cold. Completely cold. I had the horrible feeling of holding hands with a dead man.

He spoke again, his harsh voice cutting the silence:

\- Welcome to my home. Enter at your will. Go away safely and - he paused for no apparent reason, giving me a sneer - leave some of the joy you bring.

I smiled back, pretending not to have noticed the intonation of displeasure that directed me.

\- I'm looking for Mr. Harold Ed.. - I started to say.

\- Just Harry, please. We are among friends here.

\- Mister? Oh, I'm sorry... I thought you were older.

I was truly shocked. All of my research seemed to have been in vain. I found a man who was the pure contradiction of everything I expected. He smiled again, seeming to really enjoy my confusion.

\- That depends, my dear. How old were you told I was?

I didn't answer, just watching his expression twist into something I couldn't identify. The man seemed to show real disgust for me, despite his efforts to be polite. He deposited the lamp in a niche in the wall and picked up my luggage, carrying it inside before I could protest. When I tried to reach the suitcase in his hand, he pushed me away.

\- No, Mr. Malak. You are my guest. It is late and my servants are not available. Allow me to take care of you, myself.

He carried my belongings down the hall, then along a staircase and then down another hall. Everything seemed dark and dusty, as if no one had been there for years. There was also an unpleasant smell in the air, typical of everything that is too old, sour as rotten meat. At the end of that corridor, a door opened - finally a clean and well-lit environment. There was a table set there and a very cozy fireplace.

The man stopped, leaving my luggage on the floor. He closed the door through which we entered and opened the next one, which led to a small hall with no furniture and windows. He opened another door, barely noticeable in the light of the single lamp that illuminated the tight space. He motioned for me to come in. It was a pleasant sight. A large room with good lighting and a warm fireplace. My luggage was quickly picked up and brought to the room.

\- I imagine that after your trip you want to wash and get some rest. When you are finished, come to the other room. Your supper will be ready.

When he closed the door behind him, all the tension in the pit of my stomach seemed to dissipate. There was something in his presence, a kind of macabre imposition, that formed knots in my throat. I did everything I needed to do. I took a nice hot shower to ease my muscles and put on clean clothes. Then I went to the other room.

I found supper on the table. My host was standing by the fireplace, leaning on the stone frame under which the painting - already very old - of a young girl rested. Beautiful and sad. Something turned inside me. An absurd kind of familiarity occurred to me, but I didn't pay any attention to it.

I ate alone, since Harold said he didn't have the habit of having dinner. While I ate, he asked me a lot of questions about my trip and, little by little, I told him everything that had happened to me.

While we were talking, I had the opportunity to observe him better and I can say: the man is different from everything I have seen. His face is marked by a sharp, defined jaw; framed by short hair - but long enough for waves and small curls to form; his lips are ridiculously alive and when he smiles his teeth are ridiculously white and too sharp; the eyes are intense and strange, punctuated by raised eyebrows. Everything in his expression screams a stiffness that doesn't match his young age, and he may not be an old man, but he is undoubtedly a nobleman. He has the face of someone who knows power - who  _ likes  _ power. His hands are also strange, looking like older hands than they really should. His fingers are pale and long, his nails are long and a little purple, and he seems to have a special fondness for rings.

Any serenity that I could have acquired alone in that room, any peace that the distance from the man could bring to my soul was broken during that conversation, when he bent and touched me again. A chill ran down my spine and nausea came over me when I felt his breath. He obviously noticed my discomfort and stepped back, stiff. With that sinister smile, he sat in an armchair beside the fireplace. We were silent for a while.

I patted my pockets for my phone again, not that I had any hope of trying to contact - the castle even seemed to lack electricity - but it would be good to confirm what time it was, since I had the impression that I had slept through the night. Harold got up from the chair, but I pretended not to notice his gaze watching me. When the screen threw a streak of light over my face, the man's reaction was startling. Petrified and with dilated pupils, he looked at the screen as if he saw a haunt. My chest throbbed and I smiled, forced, but the man seemed unaware of anything else around him, all attention turned to the luminous screen and - in a completely terrible way - to the smiling Louis in the photo.

\- He's my fiance, - I announced, clearing my throat with a forced cough. - My fiance, Louis.

Harold seemed to wake up from a reverie. His eyes darted to my face and this time there was something more. Not the simple displeasure of before, not the scorn and not even the fun at my expense. The look he gave me was full of hatred. The man did not know me, but I knew there that he detested me with all his strength. I hated myself so much that I could tear myself in half with a look.

\- Fiance? He asked with disbelief and a hint of disappointment in his voice.

\- Fiance. We're getting married when I get back to London... at least that's what I hope.

\- You’re a lucky man, Mr. Malak. - He smiled, cynical. - I was married once, but I lost it to misfortune.

\- I'm sorry, sir. An accident? - I asked genuinely curious, even though I knew it might sound a little impolite on my part.

\- Suicide. - Harold replied, bitterness escaping his lips.

\- I'm sorry, - I said again.

\- Don’t be. It is in the past and, - he paused briefly, - as I was telling you, you are a lucky man. Just like I was once. A man without love is like a boat adrift, my friend. Always sailing, but never getting home.

I nodded slightly, showing that I understood, and he continued:

\- Storms happen on the high seas, you know that, Mr. Malak? They are the worst storms, because rarely does anyone see them, hardly anyone is aware of them. The winds change, my friend. Drifting boats find a port at random and those with the right destination eventually sink. Love your… Louis. Love him with all your strength... as long as you can.


	5. Chapter 5

_ Lost and alone in confusion, _

_ I'm screaming, _

_ But I can't wake up. _

❧

**Zayn Malik's Inbox**

_ Submitted by: Louis Tomlinson _

_ To: Zayn Malik _

_ Date: May, 8th 10:35 PM _

_ Subject: Visit! _

_ Hey, Zee! _

_ It’s been a while since we’ve spoken well, right? I'm sorry for ignoring your last email. I've been so busy and I've been a terrible friend. I'm going to be away from school for a while and I was thinking about going to see you. You practically ran away to Bradford and it made things a little difficult. I miss my best friend and when it was you and me sharing a dorm at college. It was so simple, right? _

_ So much has happened in my life - my life with Luke. I bet you have a lot to tell me too. In fact, maybe I stalked your profile on Facebook (I'm sorry), but I would love to hear the news in an official way, personally. _

_ I hope you can return soon and that I am not being a nuisance. _

_ Louis. _

* * *

**Zayn Malik's Diary**

_ May 9th. _

It is still 8 am, but I am tired. The fucking sleepwalking strikes again.

Liam is being a pain in the ass, which doesn't help me at all. I think spending almost 10 hours a day surrounded by crazy people is starting to affect my boyfriend. Fiance. I haven't gotten used to the title yet. He wants me to go back to the doctor to adjust my medication, but I'm really not in the mood to do that - which makes us fight all the time we spend together. Do medicines help me sleep? Sure. Help me sleep without wandering around the house like crazy? Obvious. But they are too strong and they hurt my stomach, they leave me in a constant state of indisposition and I would like to spend at least part of my day without feeling too doped to do anything.

I wanted a normal life with Liam, but all I'm having is him behaving like a watchdog every night. It's annoying, so I can't let him know about last night.

I convinced him, after yet another fight, to go to his apartment. I don't know if I was really convincing or if he was just hurt - which is a great possibility. He did, and it was the first time that I managed to breathe inside my own home in the past few days. Despite my heavy conscience, it was great - but then I fell asleep... And I had the dream.

It was a strange dream, too vivid. A voice called out to me and I went after it. I was sleeping, but I was aware that I was chasing that call and could not wake up. It never happens. I never remember what I do when I get out of bed and turn the house upside down in the middle of sleep, but this was different.

I remember perfectly putting on a coat and turning the key in the lock on the front door. I remember stumbling down the steps as the voice called out to me louder. I remember crossing the street in the dark and stopping on the other side, in the grove of the small square in front of my house. I remember him. There was a man with me, but he was not real - he looked unsteady, made of smoke or like a projection that comes from far away. He had no details, it was just a slender, imposing shadow, a voice that made me drag my feet towards him.

When we were close enough, the shadow moved forward and, in a whisper, asked me where he was.  _ "He?" _ was the answer in my head. I felt the cold air running down my spine and the voice echoed again:  _ "You know. You are going to take me to him." _ The shadow fell, dissipated like mist, and then I opened my eyes.

It was almost morning and I was alone among the trees.

* * *

**Louis Tomlinson Inbox**

_ Submitted by: Zayn Malik _

_ To: Louis Tomlinson _

_ Date: May, 9th 10:52 am _

_ Subject: Re: Visit! _

_ Hi, Lou! _

_ I thought you forgot about me, bro. _

_ You don't have to worry or apologize to me. I understand that things have changed for a while now. Okay, Lou. Really. _

_ I miss you and college - well, not in terms of assignments, seminars and 7 or 8 tests in a week. You get it. _

_ I would love to see you and catch up. You will never be a nuisance. _

_ See you soon! _

_ Zayn. _

* * *

**Dr. Liam Payne's Diary.**

_ Bradford Rehab Clinic Diary: May 9th. _

A little past noon and I just woke up. I fell asleep lying on the couch in my living room.

Last night was hectic. Things between me and Zayn are getting worse and last night he practically kicked me out of his house. He knows that I worry, I fear that he will leave the house asleep or get hurt, but he does not seem to understand or accept my concern. I want to try not to think about it now, no matter how much it takes me over - I believe we will resolve ourselves.

There is work to be done and my head full in the last few days has prevented me from writing, so I will make a short summary about the patient who has been the biggest question mark in my career: Simon.

At dawn on the 6th, around 3 am, Simon had an outbreak. I was not present, but I did not believe the scene when I watched the recordings made of the attack. He started with the usual: he spent more than an hour shouting about the master. About the master having found it, about the master being satisfied after so long, about the master being on his way.

A nurse was sent to medicate him in his rooms and then the unexpected happened. Simon was never the crazy violent type, but he attacked the poor nurse (Richard) and tried to bite him in the neck. Richard managed to push him in and close the fence, so the maddening bite bit himself! He pulled a strip of skin and flesh from his right arm. A real bloodbath on the carpet and the white walls of the room. It took three men to contain it and apply a tranquilizer.

On the 7th, in the afternoon, I went to visit him. The man looked stable and completely sane - the worst kind of crazy, honestly. He apologized for the mess, for the inconvenience and asked him to send "his sincere apologies to Richard". He also did a great job of rationalizing and trying to blame me for what happened, saying he wouldn't have to bite anyone if I gave him the damn cat. When I told him there would be no cat, he laughed.

\- There will be a cat when the master arrives. He's so close now, Dr. Payne. He knows it and now he’s coming to get it. There will be a cat or a dog. Maybe a little baby. Maybe a little doctor.

The tone of threats in his voice gave me chills.

I feel nervous at the anticipation of seeing you later.

_ Bradford Rehab Clinic Diary: May 9th - Later. _

I just returned from Simon's quarters. My hands are shaking a little, but I'm glad I took the precaution of recording our conversation to transcribe it here.

When I got to the room, he was having lunch. Not the food, but the flies he caught using the food as bait.

\- Hello, Dr. Payne. No cats? - he received me.

\- No cats, Cowell. Give up.

\- If you prefer…

\- Let's talk about the master, - I suggested with a twinge of hesitation.

The master is a device that has intrigued me since the patient started citing him during outbreaks. Simon demonstrates an exaggerated adoration posture, as if the master was almost a religious figure and, at the same time, fears him as he fears nothing else. It is difficult to understand.

\- Come on, Cowell. Tell me about the master. Who is he?

\- You will meet him, Doctor.

\- I will? Will I meet him when he comes to  _ "get it" _ ? What does he come for, Simon?

\- It's always her. He waited too long, but now he's found him... So he's coming to get it, to take it home. Near the river she likes.

\- He or she? - I asked - You look confused.

\- Him, her. It doesn't matter, Payne. The eyes are the same and will come home.

I studied his serene expression for a moment. The expression of any man, not a man reporting hallucinations.

\- How do you know these things, Simon? How do you talk to the master?

\- He visits my head, Doctor, when I dream. He comes because I allowed it, I allowed it because he promised.

\- What did he promise you?

\- That I will be like him, I will live forever and be strong like a thousand men.

I waved, pretending to understand that part that was obviously delirious.

\- Does he just visit your head? Did the master choose only you?

\- Before, yes, but now there is the other. The one who will bring it to Him.

\- Bring it to him? Bring the person with the special eyes, Cowell?

\- Yes.

He seemed to resign himself. Determined not to give further details, but I insisted.

\- Who's the other one, Simon? Has he seen the master?

Simon smiled and there was regret in his expression.

\- I can't talk about it, Dr. Payne... But ask your fiance if he enjoyed the meeting.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys!
> 
> Before we start, I think I need to give you all a heads up: I'm not really sure how many people are actually reading this story as the chapters get published, but it might take a little while before I can manage to update again.
> 
> The next few weeks are gonna get intense with school and work stuff, so I might not come around in a while. I'm so sorry to keep you all waiting and I hope you guys won't forget me while I'm away! I'll try my best to update again asap, but if I don't, I hope you all can understand!

_ Empty within, empty without,  _

_ Surrounded and estranged.  _

_ Sometimes I don't know If I'll find the answer,  _

_ Or if I've ever asked the question. _

❧

**Louis Tomlinson Outbox**

_ [DRAFT] _

_ Submitted by: Louis Tomlinson _

_ To: Luke Malak _

_ Date: 5/11 03:46 a.m. (saved last) _

_ Subject: [NO SUBJECT] _

_ Luke, _

_ This is already e-mail number eight. Eight emails and no replies. No text messages. No calls answered. _

_ At first I was worried - I still am - but I think I'm getting past that point. If something had happened, I would have been notified. Your parents would have already been warned. There was nothing, you just decided to ignore all my attempts at communication, didn't you? Why, Luke? _

_ I went to the office and talked to John yesterday, the letter you sent them arrived. Just business details. Perhaps a letter will arrive for me too, but every minute I have more doubts about what will happen. I'm hurt and I don't know what we're going to do to fix this when you get back. Are you coming back, Luke? Do you think about going back? Whatever! I don't really know why I'm still trying, maybe I won't even press the send button at the end of this message. _

_ Yesterday afternoon I packed my bags, I'm going to see Zayn in Bradford - I know you don't like him, but that is irrelevant now. Zayn is my friend and I need a friend. I will be part of the journey by car and another part of the train, I leave at noon. _

_ I sincerely hope you are well, you know? And that you’ll send me any kind of news or any kind of satisfaction. _

_ Louis. _

* * *

**Luke Malak's Diary**

_ May 11th _

Perhaps it is time for me to really reflect on what I have been going through the last few days, staying in this castle. Perhaps it is time to admit the reality that I have been denying myself for the past few days: I am some kind of a prisoner.

It is again early in the morning and although I slept quite late, I feel rested. Mr. S.'s routine is quite exhausting: He spends his nights awake keeping me company, close to dawn, retires to his quarters. I never see him during the day.

On the morning of the 6th, I received the first note when I went to the living room to have breakfast:

_ "I will have to be gone for a while. Don't wait for me - H." _

Since then, morning notes have been the only signal I have from my client during the day. Furthermore, I only see him at dusk.

He is, in general, weird. Apart from the unusual physical attributes, there is a whole... "way of being" special. Harold, Harry (as he insists), seems to be very attached to the past, but never tells stories that he has lived. They are always stories of ancestors, things that happened years and years ago, war reports that were too detailed - to the point of becoming disgusting. If I were not seeing the man and were not witnessing his young age, I would say that he participated in wars and massacres himself, that he eviscerated enemies and cut off heads with his own hand holding the sword. He seems fascinated and satisfied with his tales of violence - and with the discomfort on my face every time he starts telling them. He never talks about his childhood, studies - he is a cultured and intelligent man - much less about his deceased wife.

There are, however, other observations to make and I cannot pay attention to just one detail.

Harold never eats. Never. At least, he never accompanies me at meals and there is always some excuse:  _ "I ate earlier" _ ,  _ "I ate in the street" _ ,  _ "I don't feel well in the stomach" _ . I do not understand how, despite appearing at least an anemic, a man like him has so much disposition and strength eating so little or rarely.

The castle has deficiencies, although it is never mentioned. I'm pretty sure there are no servants after all. Everything is neat when I'm not around and I admit, there are no flaws, but I've never seen the servants and Harold avoids mentioning them. Probably he himself has been the one who takes all the necessary steps around here.

_ Addendum: I didn't see servants or other people circling the castle, but I've heard female voices penetrate through the walls and two nights ago, a child's cry. _

Still on the castle, it is prudent to report that I am restricted to a part of the construction. Harold warned me not to "go out exploring too much," or I might end up lost and regret it - "the construction is tricky, my friend," he said in a mocking tone. I cannot go down on the patio or move away from the room and living room that have been made available to me. Most of the doors are tightly sealed and some passages are deliberately blocked. While testing the doors of a corridor not so far from my room, I was fortunate to find a good library, with many books in English. Some maps, history books and cultural guides, all focusing on London.

When I mentioned my finding, Harold didn't seem angry that I was checking without permission, but satisfied. We talked a little about his interest in England and he told me that the country has an energy that it lacks in Romania. He further assured me that there would be no problem using that library and continued:

\- We are in Transylvania and Transylvania is not England. Our customs are not like yours and you will find many strange things. From what you told me of your experiences, you already have an idea of what you can find.

This led to a long conversation where I recalled some of the things I had seen so far and many questions were asked - from me. Harold withdrew when he answered, seeming to ponder what was safe to say or not. When he reached the limit of what he thought it prudent to tell me, he completely changed the subject, asking me to tell him about the properties he was acquiring.

I read aloud the documents describing the old mansion in London and an inactive chapel in Bradford. Both properties were ominous, I can say. The mansion was visited by me and was in pieces, the chapel - I did not visit in person - seems to need renovations with some urgency, but Harry seemed satisfied with what was described, especially with the locations: the mansion next to the London municipal cemetery, chapel near Bradford cemetery and a madhouse.

Addendum II: The hospice near the chapel is the same one where Simon - the first agent who saw Harold - is hospitalized.

The next day, at dusk, I was instructed to write two letters: one to the real estate agency and one to Louis. In both, I should inform you that I would stay here, with Harry for at least a month. When I started to protest, Harry took me by the shoulders, telling me that I would be much more helpful in conducting the rest of the negotiations here than in London.

There is no electricity in the castle, so letters are the only form of communication. Well, letters or going to the city and going to the city is an impossible mission being confined to the castle.

I know that Harold posted the letters - at least one of them. The letter I sealed and addressed to Louis was found open and torn. It was not as if my host was trying to hide his action, on the contrary, he seems to have purposely left the evidence of the crime in view. He wanted me to know what he did, he wanted me to be aware that he had boycotted my attempt to communicate with my fiance. That realization gave me chills, but I didn't dare question it.

I try to remain calm and have a calm surface, at least in front of my host, but I am truly terrified and do not know what to do.

❧

_ May 11th - later _

It is a little after three in the afternoon and I came back from another small expedition through the castle.

I managed to sneak through a blocked passage and went down to a kind of conservatory. The place seems to me completely abandoned, as well as most of the castle. It may have been beautiful at some point, but all that's left now is dust and rust. Dry fountains and skeletons of dead roses in empty pots.

I didn't find anybody there, but there were at least a dozen boxes loaded with a stinking black earth. I wouldn't be surprised if it was earth overturned by tombs or something. Perhaps, for the sake of my own sanity, I should avoid thinking about the use of the content in those boxes.

Tomorrow, when I am alone in the morning, I will take the opportunity to explore more and better, with much more time available. Harry doesn't need to know any of this, after all. He never around.

He will not know any of this.


End file.
